Last Call
by ashestoashesanddusttodust
Summary: Loosely interconnected drabbles in a modern AU setting.
1. Chapter 1

**Last Call  
**

**A Word**: A modern AU setting where I will be applying various texts from the TFLN web site to people. Collected in a way that sorta makes sense, they were mostly incomplete and scattered before.

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(304): I tried to cut him off and he said "I was the president of a fraternity for 3 years, I could outdrink God."

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"No," Desmond says.

"I'm good."

"_No_," Desmond repeats with more emphasis.

"Seriously!" The drunk man shouts. His speech is impeccable for how much alcohol he's poured down his throat, but his gaze is still firmly fixed to the left of Desmond's head. "I'm good!"

"Like hell you are," Desmond's starting to get annoyed. The man isn't getting violent about being cut off -yet- but his persistence is almost worse. A violent patron can be forcefully evicted. An annoying one just has to be put up with. So sayeth Lucy Stillman who signs Desmond's paycheck each week. "You're cut off for the rest of the night, buddy. I'm not changing my mind."

"You don't get it. I was president of a fraternity for three years," the man says, face deadly serious even as he clutches the bar a little too hard. "Three years! I can out-drink God himself!"

"Well, he isn't here," Desmond finally catches Malik's attention and points at the patron who is starting to sway alarmingly even with the bar to support his weight. The bouncer nods and quickly makes his way to the bar. Screw Lucy's rules, Desmond isn't up for dealing with this type of drunk tonight. "So be nice while Satan here takes you out to find a cab."

"Sir," Malik catches the man as he almost falls. The respectful title, as always, sounding odd when said by the unsmiling man. "Come with me."

"Hey," the man says as he's easily pulled towards the door. He stumbles over his feet but Malik doesn't let him fall or stop. Not even when the man actively tries to pull away. "Hey, hey! You got one arm."

Desmond winces as the door slams shut behind them. He goes back to serving the dwindling night crowd, keeping a wary eye on the door. Not five minutes pass before Malik comes back in looking scarily satisfied as he walks back to the bar.

"How'd it go, Lucifer?" Desmond asks as he fills a coffee mug with the strong brew Rebecca had made earlier. Not bothering with any sugar or creamer he pushes it across the bar. The other man likes the stuff black. As black as his own heart, or the empty space where one should be.

"Aside from the bruising he's safely on his way home," Malik smiles slightly as he takes the mug. "You should have cut him off earlier. He was too drunk to use the stairs without tripping even with my help."

There is no special inflection or emphasis on the word 'help' but Desmond hears it anyway.

Kadar says his brother deals well with questions and insults about his amputated arm, but Desmond doesn't believe a word of it. He's noticed a pattern among the patrons who mention it within Malik's hearing range. Noticed that in one way or another they all seem to have a bad night at the bar.

The bad nights tend to range from Malik throwing a man through his own windshield to an entire group of giggling women getting _mysteriously_ locked in the tiny ass cleaning closet for most of the night. All courtesy of Malik, though Desmond hasn't been able to get any solid proof of it. With a few very notable exceptions the man is never even near the patrons when they run afoul of their bad luck.

Kadar says Desmond's being paranoid, that there is no way his brother could or even would do petty revenge. Desmond hasn't bothered to mention the unholy light that always seems to enter Malik's eyes when bad things happen to people. He hasn't had the heart to break Kadar's obvious denial over the fact that his older brother is the personification of pure evil.

"Devil," Desmond says, not fooled even a bit by the seemingly innocent event Malik's telling him. Malik simply smiles before leaving with his mug. Probably going to look for souls to devour.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Last Call  
**

**A Word:** I have vague ideas that the next couple of chapters had TFLN inspirations once upon a time, but I can't remember what they were anymore.

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Kadar senses a disturbance in the force the minute he walks into the bar. Looking around uneasily, it takes him only a few seconds to pinpoint the source to the bar. Specifically, the man tending the bar and three women gathered around him.

Kadar eyes the sight before him with a pensive frown as he slowly approaches. "You're not wearing a shirt."

Desmond glances up from his work, "Hey man. Lucy said to clean out the deep frier before the nights over."

"Why are you shirtless?" Kadar asks not willing to be swayed from his very important point.

"Because _they_," Desmond flicks his towel at the grinning trio, "convinced me to wash the glasses at the bar topless."

Kadar shifts his attention to the women. None of whom have shifted their sight from Des' chest in the slightest. "And how did they do this?"

"With a hundred dollar bill," Desmond replies matter of factly as he continues to dry the glassware.

Kadar sighs and shakes his head in despair, "Whore."

"Maybe," Desmond says with a careless shrug and a grin that makes the woman closest to Kadar swoon a little.

"You took money for sexual favors!" Kadar ignores the wistful sighs that come out around the word 'sex.' "How're you not a whore?"

"All I did was take my shirt off!" Desmond protests immediately. "That makes me a _stripper_, not a prostitute. There have been no sexual favors exchanged at all."

Kadar looks back at the trio, who now have a distinctly dreamy look about them, "Only because you can't see them from the angle I'm looking. Put your shirt back on."

The women boo and give him nasty looks as Desmond complies with a quickness that tells Kadar all he really needs to know about how much of the man's protests had been for the sake of keeping that hundred dollars. Kadar doesn't really care about the looks though. He'll be in the kitchen for the rest of the night. Pissing off a few women is worth not having to see what would happen if Lucy came out and found her barkeeper topless after all. It's too late to call in another bartender to fill in for him, and Kadar himself is shit at anything more complicated than a bottle of beer.

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	3. Chapter 3

**Last Call  
**

**A Word**: Ibid.

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(512): So I dropped $130 while buying shots for an army ranger, got my fake taken, almost went to jail, and came out of my black out when I was talking to the cops with a stolen detour sign in my hands.

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"You're explaining this to your mom," Connor repeats and Desmond can tell he's frowning even though all he can see through the bars and headrest is the back of his head. "I'm not going to be explaining to her why I had to arrest you for the third time this month. She already thinks I hate you as it is."

"I was totally putting that sign back," Desmond says and is proud that he doesn't slur nearly as badly as he had when Connor first cuffed him. "Besides, you get the good end of the deal here. Mom keeps sending you food to try and bribe you into liking me."

"And that doesn't make the annual family get together any less hostile at all," Connor says with a sigh Desmond can _feel_ in his bones. "Do you know how many plates got thrown last time when Grandma tried to give _both_ of our mothers advice on how to handle us?"

"Was that before or after she brought up the dead beat dad thing?" Desmond asks as he tries to isolate one specific incident in the general horror that occurs once too often for everyone's comfort.

Connor's head tilts and Desmond waits. As one of the few members of his family that doesn't actually drink, he's got the better recall. Desmond usually pregames any meeting with the rest of the family, and shows up tipsy enough to breeze through the initial rounds of hostility.

"After," Connor finally says as he turns into an all too familiar parking lot. Another night in the drunk tank. He's got to invest in some bigger friends who can actually tackle his ass to the ground when he starts getting stupid drunk. Or maybe just find ones that _don't_ think it's hilarious that he always gets arrested by his cousin. "Just before she asked when they'd stop playing at being lesbians and actually marry real men to give her more grandchildren."

Desmond vaguely recalls that actually. It's about the time he climbed up onto the roof with a handle of Jack.

Aveline is already waiting by the entrance and Desmond groans at the sight of the woman who seems to have it out for his balls. "Really, Connor?"

"I let you off with a warning earlier," Connor parks the police car and turns to look at him. He's not smiling but all his amusement is in his eyes anyway. "It's not my fault you didn't have the good sense to go home and sleep it off then."

"If she kills me I'm going to come back and haunt you," Desmond mutters when the back door opens.

"Miles, didn't I just see you last week?" Aveline's smile has way too many teeth as she snaps her fingers at him and points to the jail. "Come on then, you know the drill."

Desmond does know the drill, and he gives one last speaking look to Connor before carefully getting out of the car.

"My shift is over in six hours," Connor says through the open window to either of them, or maybe both. "I should have the bail ready by then. You're account is still the same?"

"Yes," Desmond says after some thought. The bank he puts a good chunk of his paycheck into is in fact still the same. It's one of the few things he can't really fuck with while drunk. That and the fact he put Connor's name on it too. It's just easier to get reliably bailed out when he can use Desmond's money instead of his own.

"Then I will see you in six hours," Connor nods to them both, satisfied, and turns back to put the car in gear.

"Miles," a sharp finger stabs him in the back and Desmond grimaces, "march."

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters as he makes his way over the uneven lot with his hands still cuffed behind him, and Aveline stalking after him. No doubt deciding how she'll make his life miserable until Connor's shift is over.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Last Call  
**

**A Word**: I know this one was inspired by a texts but I can't remember it for the life of me. Also, some Shaun/Des thrown around here.

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Desmond wakes up and immediately prays for death. He feels like he's gone three rounds with a fucking truck and not known enough to throw in the towel after the first loss. The foul taste of Jagermeister tainted vomit in his mouth is answer enough for his condition. Desmond whimpers and tries to will himself back to sleep.

A brain splitting ring stops that idea quickly. He fumbles around before one hand hits something that clatters to the floor. Grabbing the cellphone he answers it to save his head. He's never figured out how to mute the damn thing. "What."

"You owe me twenty bucks," Kadar's voice comes across the line cheerful and loud. Very, very loud.

Desmond winces and pulls the phone away from his ear almost tempted to hang up. "What'd I do?"

"You made me loose a bet with Rebecca," the other man answers, and Desmond wonders what time it is because Kadar is too fucking coherent. "You told me you were straight man! She's going to be all smug about it too."

Desmond squints at the window he's covered with olde pizza boxes, but can't get much of a sense of the time from the bright light leaking around the edges. "What?"

"You know how competitive she gets about stuff," the eyeroll is audible even in Desmond's bad condition. "The money's just a formality. Bragging rights are the only prize she really wants."

"No, not-" Desmond grimaces shifting to curl up tighter as the nausea that had woken him first redoubles. It's making it hard as fuck to follow Kadar's words. "I'm not. I'm not gay, Kadar."

"Right," Kadar says sarcasm dripping off the single word in a way that makes Desmond worry Malik's taken the phone from his brother for a bit. "So I guess that _wasn't_ you I saw making out with a guy last night?"

"Right," Desmond says, eager to put to rest any rumors that his co-workers might have been ready to spread. Kadar's the worst gossip out of everyone. So it's best that he gets his facts straight before he gets cornered by Rebecca over it.

"Just some random dude wearing the same clothes as you, and the same stupid haircut."

"-right," Desmond replies slower this time. The dark shroud over his memories shifting in a way he really doesn't like. "My hair is not stupid."

Kadar ignores his defense of his hair as he continues in a mockingly sweet tone of voice, "And who just so happens to also be named Desmond."

What the- No. Kadar's just being an ass.

Desmond scowls and closes his eyes against the light leaking in through the window. "Very funny, asshole. It's not nice to fuck with the mind of the hungover, Kadar. You weren't exactly sober last night either," his memories stir in a way that's actually helpful and he frowns as he accuses, "You were as hammered as me, why the fuck do you sound so chipper!"

"The sound of your misery is all the cure I need," nicer brother his ass. Desmond decides it's about time to reconsider his theory on Malik being a changeling. It's becoming obvious that Kadar is fairly demonic himself. "I also wasn't nearly drunk enough to hallucinate you going at it with another guy."

"Like hell you weren't," Desmond immediately denies, because he sure as hell remembers that. "You were drunk as fuck, man. Whatever you _think_ you saw last night doesn't count."

"Yeah? Well, Malik wasn't drunk at all!" Kadar's smug and Desmond thinks hard about punching him until his head twinges in warning. "He saw you sucking face with a guy, Des."

"El Diablo doesn't count either," Desmond growls as best he can. "He lives to sow lies and discord among the world."

"How about Altair?"

"Neither do minions."

"I'll tell him you called him a minion," Kadar says with a sharp laugh that makes Desmond wince. "Lucy and Rebbecca were there too. Oh, and Leo, pretty sure he was DD last night. Ezio and Rosa were kinda drunk but they're alcoholics so they probably remember it pretty well."

No. "No." _Hell_, no!

Memory, that tricky little _bitch_, steps up and helpfully parts the not-quite-a-black-out curtain for him. And yes, there were lips, and tongue, and very large hands that were not female at all the more he concentrates on it. "Quit fucking with me, Kadar. I never-"

"Lucy taped it all," Kadar says with even more cheer as he drops this bombshell he's been saving up. The bastard is enjoying this.

"Bull-fucking-shit she did!" Desmond chooses to ignore the desperate edge of denial in his voice as he sits up.

"It's on Youtube," Kadar sounds equally regretful and delighted. "I'll send you the link."

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

Desmond groans and thinks about banging his head on the floor, but the hangover is doing such an excellent job of it already. "Dude, no, despite what happened last night. While I was drunk! I'm _not_ gay."

"The hickeys on your neck and the Youtube hits say otherwise," Kadar says right back, "and you'd better have my money ready by tonight."

Desmond throws his phone against the wall. It hits the floor only five inches away from the mattress and spins uselessly. He can hear the faint sound of Kadar's laughter coming from it.

"Bullshit," Desmond rolls back up under his blanket determined to fall back asleep. To ignore the newly discovered throb of bruises on his neck and very vague memories of a man in glasses that want to remind him of exactly what he did the night before.

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	5. Chapter 5

**Last Call  
**

**A Word**: Ibid.

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Desmond wakes up in an empty room alone and with something trying it's damnedest to break out of the top of his skull. He groans and rolls off the soft bed he's on. Thankfully, it's on the floor and he doesn't fall very far before he crawls in the direction of what he hopes is a bathroom and not a closet.

He's lucky, and spends several unpleasant minutes making good friends with the stained but pretty clean looking toilet. His head pounds in time with each heave and Desmond is not surprised in the least to recognize the taste of Jaeger.

A familiar bag is stuffed behind the door when Desmond lifts his head up, and he stares at it with a sinking feeling of dread that makes him start dry heaving a bit. He doesn't look at the bag again as he pulls himself up to the sink. The water has a metallic tang to it when he sticks his head under it and gulps down a few mouthfuls before his stomach tightens in warning. He staggers back to the mattress and collapses on it. Closing his eyes and resolving to figure it all out later.

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It's worse than he first thought when Desmond feels coherent enough to grab the bag from the bathroom. Sometime before blacking out Desmond had decided to repack his bailout bag. He realizes that very quickly when the first thing he pulls out is the broken and colorless lava lamp he's been meaning to throw out for several months.

"Fuck me," Desmond stares at the useless lamp before setting it down in a bare corner.

Reluctantly he upends the bag over the mattress -_his_ mattress now that he really looks at it- and shakes everything out of it. An array of crap spills out and Desmond starts to swear in earnest.

Three pairs of socks, a crown royal bag filled with nickles, a box of matches, a folded pizza box, and something that looks suspiciously like a Molotov cocktail double bagged in ziplock baggies.

The pizza box lacks food but has, "SATAN works here," written on it in his hand writing. The letters smear too easily when he touches them. The waxy feel and smell confirm he'd used black lipstick to write it.

The baggies are the same kind he has at his apartment and looking at it kicks some sort of recognition in his brain. Giving him the rather unpleasant impression that he's either burned the place down or thought about it really, _really_ hard just before passing out. Desmond decides he really doesn't need to go back and get anything he might have left behind.

Just in case.

He's made it with less than what he has now before. He can do it again. It'll just take some time and effort to build back up.

"Crap buckets," Desmond turns the bag inside out hoping there's more, but nothing else comes out. "Crap all the buckets."

He's really not looking forward to explaining this one to anyone.

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The landlord is named Boo and seems unphased by tenants coming by in the morning to ask to see the lease agreement. The rent is lower than his last place but is due each week in cash. Desmond has a moment of panic before Boo tells him he'd paid last night.

Thank fuck for that, because he only has $12.45 in nickles that's going to have to last him until he can get back to work.

Speaking of which. Desmond grabs his cellphone. He'd found it lying underneath the mattress thankfully unsmashed. He calls Lucy reluctantly. It'd taken him way too much wheeling and dealing to get a week off, and this will likely ensure he never gets another again. He needs the money though. For food and maybe a pillow or two.

The mechanical voice she's never bothered to change starts after the second ring. "Hey, Lucy, it's me," Desmond says after the tone. "Looks like I did something stupid again. Very stupid. And if the cops come by asking questions you never knew me, alright?" Which would be a funnier joke if he was completely sure that they aren't looking for him.

Crap, he's going to have to call Connor later and try to subtly inquire about local arson cases, and hope like hell his cousin's in a benevolent enough mood to let it slide. "Anyway, you need another hand tonight? I'm desperately in need of rent money for my new place. Bye."

He hangs up, considers, and dials another number. There are only three rings before his call is answered.

"How's work?" Desmond asks.

"Spinning," Kadar says cheerfully.

"Quit drinking. You're supposed to be working not drunk," Desmond laughs, thinks about it, and then adds, "Or get off the floor buffer. You know Lucy hates us treating it like a toy."

"Lucy has the floor buffer locked up and won't give me the key," Kadar says with as much wounded dignity as he can manage as he giggles. The man's tipsy at least, because giggles only happen after his third beer. "Haven't had a single order tonight. What else am I going to do but drink?"

"No one's ordered food?" That gets his attention pretty good. Desmond hasn't worked a single night where the patrons don't order at least one nacho plate or wing platter. "What the hell is going on down there?"

"Hooters girls are paroling the street," Kadar answers. "They're assaulting all our patrons with free hotwings before the can get in the door."

"Damn," Desmond whistles, glad that he isn't actually on bar duty tonight despite his serious lack of funds. "Bet Lucy's pissed."

"She's about to start breathing fire, man," Kadar begins to cackle. "Des, one of them tried to come _in_ the bar."

"Oh, shit," Desmond grins at the impending tale of carnage. "What did she do?"

"No one knows. We only saw the poor woman running away, mascara and tears dripping down her face," Kadar's voice drops and Desmond has to strain hard to hear. "Malik was there but he's not saying anything about it. He just told me there's a _reason_ he works for and respects Lucy."

"High praise," Desmond flips his mattress again but fails to find anything new. "Look, did you see my bike in the lot when you came in earlier?"

"Yeah, it's here," Kadar says and Desmond doesn't need to be there to know there's an asshole grin stretching across his face. "How hammered were you last night, and how did you escape being put into the drunk tank? Connor stopped by looking for you, you know. He took your keys from Rebecca. Said something about not being paid enough and family disownment."

Crap. Desmond winces and falls back onto the mattress. "His or mine?"

"Dunno, his I think, but I could be wrong. Uh," Kadar's voice goes faint for a bit before coming back to rush out. "Lucy's heading back this way, I'll talk to you later man. Enjoy your vacation hangover!"

Desmond looks at the dark phone for a bit and contemplates calling Lucy again, but with the temper she's in right now he'd be better off waiting. He pulls up a map of the area instead and wonders which of the half dozen Chinese places in walking distance will give him the least amount of shit over a bag of nickles.

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	6. Chapter 6

**Last Call  
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**A Word**: Just a note to consider: Connor and Desmond's mothers are perfectly sane and rational human beings (with debatable tastes in men) but they have a very special relationship with their mother that's been carefully nurtured and pruned over their lives. Nurtured by bitchy, ego destroying put downs, and pruned by snippy criticisms that is. Nothing is really safe when the three women are brought together. Not ears, furniture, plates, or even sanity. Haytham never got a chance to meet Grandma before or he would've known better than to suggest a public location for the dinner.

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(765): My grandma had to be escorted out by police.

"Out of morbid curiosity," Desmond starts as they watch the procession of frosty insults walk out, along with every other patron in the place, "how much shit do you get at work about being related to all of us?"

"I don't want to talk about that," Connor says with a tired sounding sigh as he finishes stacking up the broken plates that the waiters would've been all too happy to help with. If they weren't hiding in the back that is.

"Yeah, I thought so," Desmond pulls out the envelope of cash they'd started chipping in on as soon as the plans for the family get together had been finalized. He's not sure exactly how much the final total has been, but he knows it was enough to cover their food bill twice over if they'd ever even got around to ordering more than drinks. "Whose idea was it to eat out at a restaurant anyway?"

"My Dad's," Connor takes the envelope and passes it over to the stiffly smiling manager who has been not so subtly trying to edge them out since the rest of the family followed the police escort. "I know, bad idea, but Mom wanted to try to include him more in the family. So when he suggested it..."

Connor trails off almost helplessly and Desmond grimaces in understanding as they make their way to the doors. If his dad showed up out of the blue again he's not entirely sure what he'd do, but Connor and Aunt Ziio's reactions are positively saintly. He has to give them credit for trying.

The cop cars are still there, and Desmond can see Grandma sitting in the back of one of them. Her hands aren't cuffed but she's clearly shouting through the window where one of the cops is critically studying Haytham's clearly broken nose. Aunt Ziio stands nearby, clearly done with life at the moment, and Desmond's Mom is rubbing her head. Clearly wishing she hadn't skipped out on the first round of alcohol. Desmond wishes the same thing actually, but he'd at least been _trying_ to act civilly in public.

"Where's Grandpa?" Connor eventually asks warily, and a look around the parking lot shows Desmond that the car their grandparents own isn't around.

"Uh, probably going to arrange for bail," Desmond hazards as the cops back away from Haytham. One of them clearly finishing up writing something down. Neither makes a move to let Grandma out of the car. Which might be for the best really.

She's not shouting anymore, but her glare is icy and still fixed on Haytham. Desmond knows that if they tried letting her out while the man was still around they'd just be setting everyone up fro round two of the Miles family knock down, and round two _always_ ends with Grandma duking it out with his Mom and Aunt while the rest of them watch in utter helplessness. The cops really wouldn't stand a chance.

"And your colleagues always wonder why I'm such an alcoholic," Desmond mutters and waves when the two vaguely familiar cops turn to look at them.

"They're more curious about why I _don't_," Connor settles in against the wall next to the door. Smiling painfully at a gawking family who can barely tear their eyes away from the cops long enough to get the door open.

"Well, you've always been the smart one," Desmond leans next to him and pretends not to notice the low conversation going on between his Aunt and Haytham. Low and civil but clearly angry. "You get that from your mom."

"And you _didn't_ get that from yours," Connor replies bluntly, because he's the one signing off on most of the police reports Desmond has been part of and also because he's not the kind of guy who deals in little polite lies.

"Really feeling the love here," Desmond sighs as Ziio's arm twitches in a way that makes it clear how South her 'conversation' is going. "You know what, lets just grab our Moms and go get a pizza. They'll need your Dad at the station to finish the report right?"

"Yes," Connor eyes the space between his parents with a critical eye, picking up on the growing tension that has his cop buddies sidling closer with a wary looks. Connor straightens up and squares his shoulders like he does every time Desmond's seen him when he has to break up drunken brawls. "Yeah, lets do that."

"Awesome," Desmond eyes Haytham for a moment, but the cop telepathy bond is going strong because the two cops are already closing in on Haytham leaving Ziio to Connor. "One more family dinner down the drain."

At least nothing was caught on fire this time.

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	7. Chapter 7

**Last Call  
**

**A Word**: Ibid.

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(954): "I'm 95% straight," he says. Cut to him on his knees...by far the most beautiful guy I've ever fucked.

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"And how much alcohol was involved in that accomplishment?" Rosa asks with keen interest as she takes up more than her fair share of the library table despite the fact that she isn't studying anything. She never does, and Shaun's starting the think she isn't actually enrolled in any classes at all.

"Enough that I can't remember his name," which is a _damn_ shame, because that man had been absolutely beautiful on his knees. A combination of his looks and the enthusiasm he'd shown to sucking Shaun's brain out of his dick. What little of it hadn't been marinated in bad beer. Which, come to think of it, might have also colored his remembrance of the night a bit too. The details are a bit fuzzy around the edges, and Shaun can't quite bring himself around to agreeing on if the man's eyes had been brown or hazel.

"Too bad, sounds like you'd have loved helping that straight boy knock that percentage down a bit more," Rosa's grin is lecherous, but her attention is already wandering. "Now, since you've had such a _wonderful_ time going out with us once before..."

She trails off suggestively and Shaun wants to sigh. He knew that giving into his friend's demands to do a pub crawl -"Just this once!" Ezio had pleaded with the kind of angelic expression no one who knows the man should trust- had been a very bad idea. Despite the wonderful end to the night it really wasn't going to be worth the loss of his study time now that they would expect him to go out _every_ time. "I have an essay due."

"No you don't," Leonardo, the damn _traitor_, looks up from his book. Biology of something despite the fact that Shaun knows the man doesn't have a single science class this semester at all. His smile is kind and innocent in a way that belies how devious his flat mate can be. Especially when it came to sharing corralling duties with their hard drinking friends. "You should come out tonight, it will be nice to have someone to talk with who makes sense even when drunk."

"Absolutely," Rosa agrees immediately with no sign of recognizing the put down at all, not when it gets her what she wants at least. She reaches across the table to tug at his sweater in a flirtatious manner despite knowing it doesn't work on him. "Besides, maybe you'll find your straight boy again, and this time you can get his name _and_ phone number."

Shaun narrows his eyes at his friends. "This is an attempted assault on my GPA isn't it? Isn't waking me up at some god-awful hour of the morning and interrupting my sleep schedule enough for you lot anymore?"

Leonardo has the grace to look a little guilty. He might not care much at all about his grades -in a way only the truly brilliant can ever manage- but he is at heart a nice guy who doesn't like causing trouble for others. Rosa on the other hand is unrepentant and unapologetic. "Yes, it is. And you should know that I take no hostages. Pick your best clothes out nerd-boy, we're taking the bars by storm tonight."

Shaun really wonders why he even tries to act responsible some days. With friends like Rosa and Ezio on hand it's a foregone conclusion he will fail.

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	8. Chapter 8

**Last Call  
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**A Word**: Ibid.

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_I succesfully cooked a taquito with a lighter. Come save me._

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There's nothing that screams desperate quite like an empty kitchen. Desmond has a bottle of ketchup and some Chinese takeout boxes that've started going green on the _outside_ and nothing else.

"Will you teach me how?" Kadar asks the second Desmond answers his phone. An entire world of morbid curiosity and horror in his voice. As an actual culinary chef -and why he chose to squander that degree in a bar is a story Desmond's never gotten out of the man before- frozen food holds a special place in Kadar's life. One that is part divine intervention and mostly utter disgust.

"Only if you promise to use the knowledge for good," Desmond says as he stares into the empty bag he'd found wedged in the deepest pit in his freezer mournfully. He doesn't remember buying them, but he doesn't remember a lot of things really. "And against your brother. You can use it on him as much as you want."

"My brother is not Satan, Des. Stop insulting him or I'll leave you to your miserable fate," Kadar says but Desmond hears the rustling of clothing, and knows he's going to be rescued and taken to where real food exists anyway.

Hopefully, Kadar's also in a good enough mood that it won't be some vegan/vegetarian/gluten/air food place too. The kind of place that has one good thing to eat and only Kadar knows it, but he refuses to tell Desmond what it is until afterwards. Because he thinks the faces Desmond makes are funny as hell.

"You keep telling yourself that," Desmond touches his Zippo carefully, testing its heat briefly, "but when he burns the world and rules supreme over all of us mere mortals I reserve the right to say I told you so."

"You're fucking ridiculous," Kadar snorts before Desmond is listening to dead air.

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	9. Chapter 9

**Last Call  
**

**A Word**: Yeah, looks like the Shaun x Des is staying in the vague storyline.

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(814): You told the bartender you needed 2 beers, and a shot of his cum...

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"I did not," Shaun says, but it does sound like something he'd do. Especially when he got that pissed. "Was he at least good looking?"

"Oh, yes," Rosa says with a grin. "Right after you called him your 'beautiful straight boy'."

"What?" Shaun doesn't remember any of this and he's vaguely concerned. Rosa will lie like she breathes to get him going, but Leonardo is wincing in remembered sympathy pain.

"You also spent most of the night trying to figure out how to get him off work and down on his knees behind the bar," Ezio helpfully interjects. His shit eating grin nearly eating his face. "Again. You kept saying again."

"Shaun," Rosa look downright predatory as she leans over the couch Leonardo swears he didn't pull out of a dumpster, it's just naturally that musty smelling. "Did you fuck one of the hottest bartenders in the city and forget about it in a blackout daze?"

"Absolutely not," Shaun slides out from under her loom and Ezio immediately takes the free space up with his feet. Unbothered by the smell. "First of all, there was no _fucking_," though lord knows Shaun would have made an exception to his no anal in dirty alleys for that man. "Secondly, I did not forget it at all. And third, you will _tell me_ what his name is so I can go back and apologize for verbally molesting him before making a much better attempt to do so physically."

"I don't think he understood what you were saying last night. You were slurring pretty badly," Leonardo offers. "You were so drunk I had to repeat everything, and I only related your drink orders to him."

Well, that's _some_ dignity saved. "You are a sainted man, Leonardo. Now," he snaps his fingers imperiously at Rosa and a thoroughly bemused Ezio, "name and establishment."

"Miles End," Rosa says as Ezio opens his mouth. "And you'll get his name only when we get there. I'm not missing this for anything."

"Fine," Shaun narrows his eyes at the gleeful woman. Arguing with her will do him no good, but he doesn't have to wait to do this on her schedule. "Nine tonight," Shaun throws out, fairly confident the bar will open at least an hour before then. Plenty of time to scout the place out on his own without her remarks throwing him off.

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	10. Chapter 10

**Last Call  
**

**A Word**: Because I was asked how Des became the bartender here, and the text worked.

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(516): id pay someone 5 dollars to tell me whos house im at right now. comfy couch though

Desmond found the Miles End after a particularity _pleasant_ conversation with his dad over the phone. Something about getting back into college so he could move to Dubai and take part in the family company he'd never given a damn about his whole life. Not even when he was young enough to believe the lies his mom told him about dad coming back eventually.

He'd thought the name funny enough to slide in and hand the scowling bartender behind the seriously nicely stocked counter his entire wallet, "I want to drink myself back to a better childhood. Use as much of that as you need to get me there."

The bartender wastes no time in pulling out the Jaegermeister and a pint of beer and Desmond's estimation of his skills rise. The dude has a serious case of scare-the-customer-away-face, and he isn't chatty at all, blowing people off in favor of powering through their orders. Desmond calculates hundreds of dollars being wasted by his attitude before the constant pour of shots do their job and put him into the comforting embrace of a blackout.

Desmond wakes up with a pounding head, fire lancing down the right side of his face, and his ass firmly planted in the most comfortable couch he's ever had the fortune to lay on. The conflicting sensations take up all his attention so that it takes him an embarrassing amount of time to realize he isn't alone. A man sits on an armchair near his feet, coffee mug in his left hand, and an expression of mild interest on his face that Desmond's only seen on doctors encountering some new disease or stoners making a previously unknown food combination.

"Wh-" he doesn't get any further than that as something pulls uncomfortably at his lips. Rough gauze scratches at his fingers when he brings them up to prod at it.

"My apartment," the man answers immediately. Irritation coloring his dark eyes as he scowls, answering almost every question Desmond can ask in a rapid volley of words he can barely keep up with. "I'm the bouncer at the bar you nearly set on fire. It's three in the afternoon. I don't know how you got to the bar so I assume your car is wherever you left it. And," the man brings his mug up to his lips, "you asked for it."

Desmond sorts through the answers and digests them as quickly as his pounding head will let him. They all fit neatly away except the last one. "I asked for it?"

"You liked Altair's scar," the name rolls off his tongue with an accent that's lacking in the rest of his words, and Desmond places him as middle Eastern. Maybe. He'd been thinking Indian before. "You kept demanding a matching one so he sent you to me to get it."

Desmond has a vague recollection of a man with a scar and a cold stare. "Wait, the bartender?"

"You are not the first," the man continues as if Desmond didn't say anything. "I'm thinking about opening a side business in scarring people, but Lucy won't let me and insists I take responsibility for any idiots I harm."

"Hey," Desmond protests weakly, but doesn't actually try to defend himself. He got blackout drunk and asked a _bouncer_ to give him a scar. This is, sadly enough, not the weirdest thing he's ever woken up to and is probably one of the many definitions of stupid he's perfected over the years. "Did you actually hit me hard enough to scar?"

"Yes," the man drains his mug and rises. Heading towards what Desmond assumes is the kitchen. "My brother will drive you back to finish your paperwork."

"Fuck," Desmond presses on the bandage covering the right side of his mouth and the fire solidifies into a line. "Wait, what paperwork!?"

"Oh, hey you're awake!" It's not the bouncer that comes out of the kitchen but they look enough alike for Desmond to draw the obvious conclusion. They're similar in everything but eye color, this man's being a light blue. Also, this one _smiles_. "I'm Kadar by the way."

"Uh, Desmond," he works his way up off the couch and swallows back several curses as the movement does bad, bad things to his head. "What, what did he mean by paperwork?"

"Dunno," Kadar is a cheerful man who is considerate enough not to make too much noise as he picks up a ring of keys. "Probably whatever you didn't finish last night when Lucy hired you."

"Hired me for what?" Desmond asks and feels a cold prickle of sweat at the base of his skull. Apprehension or the first morning bout of puking. Either one is equally likely at this point.

"For the bartender position," Kadar looks over and does a double take, face turning alarmed as he stabs a hand at a door. "Bathroom! Bathroom!"

Desmond only stumbles once on his way to the blessedly cool room. There's a towel left out on the floor and Desmond blesses messy housekeeping as it keeps his knees from cracking too painfully on the floor. He spends the next several minutes wishing he wasn't alive while praying to the almighty porcelain god.

He feels better afterwards. The first puke is always the worst. Kadar's waiting when he gets out and even has a bottle of water and some white pills he hopes is aspirin even as he swallows them. "You ready?"

"Yeah," fuck it. He needs a job anyway, rent is coming up and he's been making the unenviable decision of plain tuna or ramen for dinner for too long. At least this job is one he knows he can do, and he's already done the hard part of wowing the boss with his work.

Moving is a special kind of hell now that he doesn't have the distracting nausea keeping his mind off the pain in his face. It burns with each step he makes and seems to throb in time with his heart beat. "What the fuck did your brother do to me?"

"He punched you," Kadar says with more cheer than the sentence deserves as they walk down a set of stairs that Desmond really hopes don't go on for long. "You _really_ wanted a 'cool' scar and wouldn't leave him alone. He got annoyed."

"So he punched me? I was _drunk_," it's an evil kind of person that goes around punching drunk people while sober, and the older brother apparently makes a habit of it. "What else did I do?"

"Eh, not too much," the sun as Kadar pushes a door open onto the street is blinding and makes Desmond flinch. "Aside from kicking Altair out from behind the bar, serving for the rest of the night, and making more tips than I've seen since our last regular bartender flounced off to go work for a competitor. Not much besides that."

"Yeah?" That did sound like something he'd do. Desmond gets pushy when he's drunk, and belligerent when he thinks the bartender is doing a crappy job. "How much did I make?"

"Enough for Lucy to pay for all of your licensing, and someone to find your apartment in case you tried to run before she can get you properly chained to her bar," Kadar's grin is wide for a man suggesting such casual stalking.

"Ok," still not the weirdest situation he's ever woken up to. Desmond slouches into a car and grits his teeth against the first lurch as Kadar pulls away from the curb. "Hey," Desmond frowns, once the pain and vertigo has subsided some, something nudging curiously against him mind, "does your brother only have one arm?"

Kadar laughs.

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	11. Chapter 11

**Last Call  
**

**A Word**: Misfire fill from the kink meme. Someone misfired today and it got snatched up quick. It made me nostalgic for the first few rounds, and I am currently hunting for unanswered misfires.

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"I don't see it," Desmond says after several minutes of expectant silence.

"You're _blind_," Kadar groans in obvious disgust. He flings one hand out -narrowly missing the nearly empty pitcher of beer that needs immediate refilling if Desmond is going to get through this conversation with his sanity intact- and waves wildly at where his brother is snarling at a very blank faced Altair. "Look at them!"

"I am looking," Desmond ducks under a wild swing when Kadar spins back around to make a remarkably controlled grab for his beer. "I'm looking and I'm not seeing this epic and unspoken gay lovefest between your brother and Altair you're so focused on. Which, to be honest here? Is kinda fucking creepy."

"It's there! You just have to look at it all," Kadar swirls his glass, the beer dangerously close to sloshing out, "in the right way. Maybe look at it a second time. It's subtle, you know?"

"What do you do, look at them through the bottom of your glass?" Desmond drains his and holds it up to his eye with a smirk. Altair and Malik morph and blur through the distortion and he bites back the urge to giggle. Maybe they don't actually need another pitcher after all if he's ready to start destroying his pride like that. "Cause I'm not seeing a single thing except your brother trying to figure out where he can dump Altair's body later."

"I don't know why I keep talking to you about this," Kadar says mournfully. Head shaking as if he can't believe how dense Desmond is being.

"Neither do I," Desmond answers honestly and waves at one of the waitresses weaving through the tables. Pointing at the pitcher and giving her a broad grin.

"You're not worth my time," Kadar snorts and makes a show of ignoring him for the minutes it takes a new pitcher and a basket of fries to be placed between them.

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	12. Chapter 12

**Last Call  
**

**A Word**: Set well before most of the rest of this series, when Kadar was in high school and Malik still had both arms.

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(360): For an hr, you were convinced you no longer had a right arm so you played Super Mario Bros with just your left hand vs Beth. You won btw, mite b why she refused to wear the unicorn head

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"Who's Beth?" Malik tries to recall if he knows anyone by that name or even someone who might go by that name. He fails to come up with anyone though.

"Altair's girlfriend," Kadar explains with more patience than the boy can muster for school. Malik grabs a pad if paper and scrawls out a reminder to lecture him for it when he's not so hungover he can barely keep the current thread if conversation going.

"I don't keep track of who that idiot is fucking," they inevitably change every week and Malik stopped trying the third time he got one blonde college girl mixed up with the other thirty Altair had screwed around with.

Kadar snorts and rolls his eyes in a way that's painful to watch. Kid's been watching too much TV if he's pulling faces like that. "Sure you're not. Anyway, that's why we have a unicorn mask. Because she refused to take it, Altair wanted to burn it, and you decided to rescue it."

"Really," Malik flicks a finger at the hideous mask. It shakes and glitter falls off to add to the faint dusting of rainbow sparkle already on the table. Personally he'd rather have seen it burn. Altair must've done something stupid to make Malik want to be contrary. "Just throw the damn thing out."

"Oh, no, I can't do that," Kadar smirks as his voice takes a sing-song edge. "Not after you made such a big deal out of rescuing her from the cruel and unjust clutches of-"

"Throw it out or I'm puking on your bed," Malik grits out through clenched teeth as his stomach rolls. He remembers it now and the recollection of Altair's smirking face as they faced down over a unicorn mask is doing him no good.

"Fine," Kadar draws the word out withe the peculiar flare only teenagers can manage. He grabs the mask and tosses it into the garbage. A rain of glitter trails it's arc. "You're no fun in the morning anymore, brother dear."

"I've never been fun in the morning," Malik denies as he lays his head down. Resting it and pushing the nausea down as they wait for the coffee to finish brewing.

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	13. Chapter 13

**Last Call  
**

**A Word**: More TFLN.

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**(301): I plan on blacking out and milking a cow**

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"Please don't," Connor says with a really weird look of pain on his face. Really weird because Desmond can't tell if it's for his plans or for how the tipsy duo of Rebecca and Lucy keep pulling his hair as they play with it. Could be both but Desmond's money is on It being the hair thing.

"Why not? I always wanted to try milking one but there's no way in hell I'm touching cow tit sober," Desmond pours out the special combination of sweet syrup and alcohol he still hasn't figured a name for yet and slides it to Lucy's elbow. She's not paying attention much anymore but he's hoping his generosity with his pours will get him special consideration when she makes the schedule for next week. He's only asking for two days off this time.

"Because I'd really like to not be known as that cop related to a cow molester, thanks," Connor winces and reaches back to pull a thin braid from Rebecca's hands despite her slurred protest. He's stopped trying to escape their clutches at least. "I'm going to shave all of this off."

"Don't you dare!" Lucy reaches under Connor's arm and punches him. Harder than she probably intended. Maybe. Lucy's normal politeness tends to vanish fast when she starts drinking.

"You know they got toys if you just want to braid hair," Desmond pours a bit more into Connor's glass. Straight up whiskey, the good kind, and he's hardly touched it. Though he's eying it hard the longer he goes on being pawed at by the women. "Life sized Barbies or something. They'd complain less."

"But he's pretty!" Rebecca says in the kind of high pitched coo she never believes she can make. Mostly because no one has a camera handy when she's teetering on the edge of tipsy and flat out drunk. A state that lasts all of five seconds with her.

Connor makes that interesting, pained noise as Rebecca decides to hug him that he makes when drunk women -and men, people, almost everyone really- make passes at him. His innate need to be polite ramming head first into his need to get the fuck away from the grabby hands fast.

Desmond thinks it's hilarious, but Desmond is also an asshole.

"True," Desmond grins and enjoys his cousin's discomfort before leaning over the bar to pull Rebecca off him. Left to her own devices she'll burrow into Connor, and then Connor will have to punch her to protect his virtue because a cuddly Rebecca flips into a horny one incredibly fast. "But you're less likely to get arrested and charged for molestation with the toy. Usually."

Connor extracts himself from Lucy's hands with his usual ninja-like skills. Deft and fast enough that no one quite catches it. He grabs the whiskey and knocks it back like the pro he tries to deny being. It's in his blood though and Desmond grins as Connor doesn't even stumble over the burn.

"You're not milking a cow," Connor says when he sets the glass down. He gives Desmond a hard stare. "I'm not arresting you for that and explaining to our moms what you were doing this time. I swear if you make me-"

"Hey, hey," Desmond holds both hands up in surrender though he can't hold back his grin. "I was just saying it's on my bucket lust. Alright? Not like there's any cows around here to milk."

Connor's face goes weirdly blank and Desmond blinks. Interesting. There are cows around here and Connor knows where they are but he's not telling. Desmond silently bumps that item towards the top of his bucket list.

"No, Desmond," Connor repeats because they grew up with each other, and he knows when Desmond is planning something. He tries to look severe but Rebecca's recovered and is trying to grab him again. His look takes a hit when he's trying to avoid her and a giggling Lucy. "I'll let Aveline pick you up."

"Sadist," Desmond calls out to his retreating back. Rebecca pouts and Lucy's still giggling at nothing now really. Desmond tops up both their glasses and gets himself a couple fingers if whiskey to go with it. He grins at the women. "So, who wants to help me find some cows?"

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	14. Chapter 14

**Last Call  
**

**A Word**: Ibid.

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**(804): That's one good thing about being an only child. I can masturbate wherever the fuck I want**

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"So can I!" Kadar immediately protests. He gets stubborn stupid when drunk. Desmond tries not to take advantage of it too often, but sometimes he just needs to laugh.

"Yeah, but I don't have to worry about anyone walking in on me just as I'm getting ready to shoot," Desmond snickers as he pulls out another bottle of the awful beer Kadar favors once his taste buds die from alcohol poisoning. "It's been a week and you _still_ can't look your brother in the face."

"That's not my fault!" Kadar would be swaying if his ass wasn't planted firmly on the cushions of the couch he'd help bring up the stairs.

"I think it is," Desmond loves being a high functioning alcoholic. Especially when it comes to his friends. As it stands, aside from Jäger-Bombs, Rebecca is the only person he knows able to coherently keep up with him that isn't part of his family. "You were the one who decided to jerk off in the living room you two share," Desmond cracks open his bottle with a well practiced move and takes a long pull before a horrifying thought occurs to him. "Wait, you didn't do it on the couch, did you?"

"Where the fuck else would I be?" Kadar asks with a confused frown. It takes him several tries to open his own bottle even though Desmond had already loosened it. "The floor?"

"Yes!" Desmond kicks out hard and Kadar grunts but doesn't spill a drop. He shudders at the thought of what Kadar's done to that beautifully comfortable couch. "I sleep on that couch you fucker! How dare you desecrate it like that!"

"What, like you aren't gonna do the same soon as I'm gone," Kadar snorts derisively and gets the bottle to his mouth on the second try. It's about time to start introducing water bottles to Kadar's rounds if Desmond doesn't want to wake up to the sound of the other man blowing chunks all over his apartment.

"Yeah but I'm not going to _tell_ you about it, fuckhead," Desmond kicks harder and Kadar rocks a little under the force of it but he doesn't flinch. He's in that feel good stage of drunkness where nothing hurts. "Besides I can't tonight. Your drunk ass is taking the whole thing over for the night."

"I'm not that drunk," Kadar swears even though he's already listing to the side. The bottle dangles dangerously in his hand until Desmond rescues it. It may be too late to hydrate him. Kadar snuffles into the arm if the couch and shoves his feet under Desmond. "Is comfie."

"You're cleaning up your own puke in the morning," Desmond growls and climbs up off the couch. Kadar takes over the space with a happy sound. "And then you're getting _you're_ couch fumigated, asshole."

"Malik did that," and Desmond reminds himself to but extra bags of sacrificial coffee for the man for that. "He made me pay for it, and the exorcism too."

"Good, maybe your dumb ass won't do it again," Desmond drains his bottle in four long pulls and contemplates Kadar's mostly full one. Eh, waste not, want not. He drops his empty on the table and goes to find a bowl or something to put on the floor next the Kadar's head. He pauses and throws a glare back over his shoulder at his friend. "And I swear if you violate my couch before I can you'll end up on the black market in pieces!"

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End file.
